


Tales of the Saga

by Sintagon



Series: The Saga of Dagon [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Memory Loss, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintagon/pseuds/Sintagon
Summary: The Saga of Dagon is a massive tale, and some stories have been lost between the pages.  These are those very same forgotten tales.
Series: The Saga of Dagon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914748





	1. Questions in Broken Steel

The mind is like steel. Treated well, it is hard to break. Treated poorly, and it breaks to even the lightest blow. But even well-forged steel cannot stand up to the most monstrous of attacks, things that can split the heavens and boil the seas. That was the dilemma Sint faced now. For years, Sint had known herself as something of an unbreakable wall. In the face of foes greater than anything she could have ever dreamed of, she did not break once. Did she bend? Did she strain? Of course. But none could deny that she still stood strong.

That was until she cracked. The weight of death, responsibility, and her duty finally brought her down. The primal fear she felt when she felt herself slipping was one of the few emotions she could still remember from before she fully broke down, before she awoke without any memories beyond the fact she was a soldier. The seer, Kuraav, was the one to do the deed. He did something that forced her mind to go blank. Something that still continued to hold her memories at arms length.

It bothered her.

The others looked at her with awe and respect, and relief. But she didn’t exactly know why. She could explain why, maybe, but she didn’t understand her own explanation. That feeling in her gut, it was unfamiliarity. It was as if she were a blade broken and reforged, but she was a blade reforged by foriegn steel. Mirrored in the reflection of her old broken blade, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair had grown long and wild, her eyes wide and suspicious, and her face had a scar on it that she wasn’t entirely sure was there before. She bared her teeth, and sighed a sigh of relief. At least she had kept all her teeth.

Sint didn’t remember everything. She didn’t exactly remember what broke her, nor what she did as Warrior. Those months were a haze, but she could feel… An ache in her chest when she tried to think back. There were so many new faces in the Blades of Dagon, now. And there was a new leader. It was no surprise to Sint that they’d choose a new leader, nor was it exactly shocking that they kept him in charge as she recovered. Her brother, her guardian, had come back from the dead to save her life. And not only had he defied death, but he didn’t seem any different. His hands were still warm. His eyes didn’t glow a deathly color. He was alive. And he had completely beaten her on every single level. He was a better leader, a better man, and a better legend than she was.

Perhaps she should retire, if the return of one of her only family members was giving her this much stress. Her brows furrowed, her lips tightened, and suddenly she couldn’t bear to look at her broken sword any longer. Setting it aside, the Lady of Dagon was given a slight reprieve from her thoughts. To her surroundings did her mind wander, and it was no less due to her unwillingness to look any further than her slight curiosity that did pull her away. Stormwind City had long had a place in her mind, both as a home and a reminder, but never did it spark as much curiosity from her than it did now. Mayhaps it was a lack of observation before, but she found herself seeing a great many new things on her return.

Cast in a midday light, the Cathedral Square practically glowed as she watched it. From her vantage atop a roof, there was little in the area that could escape her notice, but so much of it was new to her that she could hardly keep concentration on every little thing. Had the Scarlet Crusade held up residence in Stormwind this long? She couldn’t recall rightly. Especially not all the new groups, unlike the narrow few she had seen before. Nevertheless, all bore some variant of an infamous flame that she had only remembered minutes prior. Not far from them, ever, were the colors of the Alliance. Ostentatious gold and flamboyant blues made them easily visible wherever they tread, those who served the Alliance. Especially those of the City Guard, who always brought the company of simple silver to compliment their rather gaudy heraldry. Of those with the guard, most were plain and ordinary men, but she could spot the rare non-human standing amidst them. How things had changed since Gilneas entered the Alliance. Even in those days, finding anything more than humans and dwarves in the employ of the guard force was an extreme rarity. Some organizations change, some do not. Of the True Red and True Blue, it was easy to see that differential. 

Of course, that pair of organizations were far from the only ones she could see. Some familiar, like the Army of the Light and the Silver Hand, and others entirely unfamiliar. Adventurers had always prided themselves on guild-making, and the Guildmaster’s Office was always booming with the news of new and prideful parades of heroes coming together in a common purpose. So to see so many new faces, it was not a surprise. But, a nagging thought itched at the back of her mind. A thought that warned her that she may have known many of the colors set before her, just that her memory’s holes had yet to fill. It was a frustrating feeling to distrust your own mind, especially when her mind felt so lucid. Attempting to divert her concern back to her scenery, Sint continued to stare below. Gaggles of citizens still seemed to feel awe when watching groups of paladins move through the square that rightfully belonged to them, but it was a thought she almost wanted to share. Her mind tugged with slight nostalgia seeing a group of proud Silver Hand Knights walk together down an avenue to the side of the Cathedral, well-maintained armor and perfect coordination in their movements reminded her of days now passed. Days she could hardly remember, honestly.

Sint almost spat as that lingering thought returned, the thoughts of her memory lost. She wondered if Warrior had spent so much time worrying about things she should’ve known, or if that version of Sint easily accepted the blank slate of life she was given, with naught else but an Ankoan blade and her own survival instincts to back her up. If given the chance, Sint wondered just for a moment if she’d ever go back. Accept oblivion and be reborn.

“Such musing does you no good.” A mirthful and accented voice playfully rose from behind her. “Before you ask, no, I cannot read minds. I simply know where that dreadfully upsetting trail of thought you have leads.” This voice was familiar to Sint, though she felt horrible that she did not completely know why. Her mind raced to trace the accent back, the tone of voice, even the candor of speech… And her mind arrived the moment the speaker chose to walk in front of her. A decidedly feminine elf stood before her, much taller than she was. The look in her eyes was not one seeking for superiority, nor was it one particularly seeking common ground, for it was merely kind. Indeed, her entire face was kind. Her eyes were of an almond shape bent into a smiling shape, her bow shaped lips turned into a slight yet warming smile, and her body was held in a certain way that denied any worry of danger that Sint may have held. Between her warm countenance and the shock of white hair atop her head and the elf’s atypical body shape for her own kinfolk, there was no mistaking that it was Sion Findragon that stood before her. A woman that Sint considered her best friend. A pang of guilt filled her mouth as she realized she had almost forgotten her friend’s voice.

“Been a minute, huh, Sion?” Sint didn’t know what else to say. “Sorry I’ve not visited.”

“For you, it may have been a while, but I just saw you yesterday. Or, I saw Warrior.” The elf eyed the broken weapon in Sint’s hand. “...Mm, but she’s dead. I came as soon as I heard that you woke up, apologies for my late arrival.”

“I can’t blame you for taking a while to get here. You’re an important person. Wasting your limited time on some broken steel is hardly a good way to spend your day.” There was a tinge of derision in Sint’s voice, as much as she could actually let in.

The elf spoke with mock outrage, much of her joy breaking through her flimsy anger. “Wasting my time? Maybe with how you speak, perhaps, but I would never dare say you are a waste of time. Though,” She paused, calming herself, “How have you been? The others haven’t been able to find you.”

“Really? Either they’ve gotten rusty, or Warrior taught me how to better hide my tracks.” A small twitch of Sion’s smile alerted Sint that she should probably get to answering her. If there was anything peculiar about Findragon, is that she was extremely impatient for a person who was at least three hundred years old. A resigned sigh leaves her as she looks Sion in the eyes. “If I’m being completely honest, I don’t know how I’m doing. Things are…” Sint waves her arms around, uncertain what to say.

“Confusing?” This elicited a quick shake of Sint’s head. “Painful?” Another. “...Different.” A nod. And this left Sion relatively confused, herself. “Well, that doesn’t exactly give me much to work off of.”

“I know exactly who I am, and what I’ve done. I’m mentally the same Sint, I’m pretty sure. It’s just…” Sint looks away, back to the square. “I don’t recognize everything I should. Your voice, my favorite food, and my wife’s eye color… The list is veritably long and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Perhaps you should see this as an opportunity. To relearn things.” The diplomatic approach that this elf had become infamous for. Sion was an oddity, even among elves, Sint found. Teldrassil had turned much of the residents of Ancient Kalimdor into harrowing spirits of vengeance, leaving naught but abyssal ash and religious hatred in their hearts. The few times Sint had managed to get one of these Black Moon elves to actually converse with her, longform, they provided trite little outside of the thoughts of bloodshed and vengeance. But Sion? Not only had she kept her eyes, but the druid had seemingly kept her sanity. Could Sint blame the kaldorei for their dogmatic and zealous thirst for blood against the Horde? Definitely not, she almost sat in the same box as they did. But, there was a certain loss of clarity that concerned Sint. Like the elves had stopped being people, and had become something… else. Not lower, by any stretch of the imagination, but different. Instead of being the tree which leaves are blown from by the wind, they became the wind, and the wind howled. It raged. Sion kept her heart open, at the very least. “I cannot lie to you, my dear friend, but you were not well before you took the leap and lost your memories. You made drastic choices that you would’ve never made before.”

“I remember a few of them. The battle in the valley, between Deathholme and the Basilisk. I sacrificed how many men for an advantage? Too many, from the sounds of it.” She grit her teeth. “And then the Eye of Necroth… The destruction I held at my fingertips, it was-” Sint stuttered for a few moments.

“It wasn’t good for you, clearly. Considering you still remember them, whilst other more important memories are still left as holes. So now think about how you are. You don’t look like the Shadow of War. You don’t appear as the woman I started to fear for.” The elf sat down, letting her feet dangle from the edge of the rooftop. “That, and I haven’t seen you climb something to think in a while. You did it a lot when we first met, before all of this. But then you were made a leader, and your feet never left the ground.” 

Sint didn’t respond, only looking down to the street. It was true, partially, that Sint felt different. Though she couldn’t tell if that was because of her memory, or if it was actually because she had managed to move beyond the things that sank her. Her lips pursed together, Sint kicking her legs as she thought.

“See, now you can relearn yourself. It’s not a chance many get. You know who you are, as you said, but do you know what you are? What are you meant to be?” 

“I don’t know. Honestly. And really, I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”


	2. Liminal Glow

Within the Cathedral of the Holy Light, it was hard not to have your breath stolen by majesty. This structure held more importance within it than most men could ever dream of. Built out of white stone, beauteous stained glass, and the hopes and faith of man… it was the perfect symbol of the Light’s radiance on Azeroth. None could claim to be more holy than this structure, and none could even dare to oppose its echelon of power. Those who had tried were all dead and buried. And even if they weren’t, they would eventually meet justice. As Sint knelt in silent prayer before the image of a long dead martyr of the faith, she could feel the eyes of justice fall upon herself. Prying, understanding, and soothing all at once, the radiant Light was a harsh yet paradoxically kind presence. The heat and hatred, the warmth and liveliness. Man was not uniquely disposed to feel the cosmic aura of the Light, yet it felt that the places they had built for it were uniquely capable of housing it.

Even the Vindicar did not make the youngest Dagon feel such things. Months ago, she had spoken with her closest friend about the state of her condition in the proximity of this place. At the time, she did not feel so bold that she could stand within these walls, to face the revelations of the Light. Still she did not feel confident in focusing on it, but there was a decided need in it. Sint had leveled her blade haphazardly against the Light and its tenets, declaring that man only had a need for man. There was no good in praying for miracles or seeking truth in the Light, so she had writ large, and there was no good in placing yourself in its hands. The Alliance had done so. Look at what the Alliance had become. 

Her anger was misguided, but her reasoning wasn’t completely faulty. The warrior looked up, head no longer resting on her fist. She looked around the cathedral as many milled around within it, passing in and out of these hallowed halls. Glimpses of the clergy, glimpses of the military, and glimpses of the citizenry were part and parcel of what Sint saw before her. Their reasons to be here were also what intrigued her, that and the changes within their faces. It was true that Sint had rarely made an excuse to pray, as she had rather grown disdainful of the practice, but that did not mean Sint didn’t oft find herself standing amidst the clergy within this establishment in the past. Her duties in one of her prior responsibilities required a better understanding of the religion of the Light. Familiarity came naturally in her observations.

When it came to the war against the Legion, she saw almost every walk of life within these walls. Even the few who did not worship the Light dwelled within at times, as if they hoped to collect some of the hopes and dreams of the many who did worship. A younger Sint considered it foolish. The broken Sint who sat in prayer obviously didn’t think so lowly of the practice. She lifted herself up carefully. Her metal leg complained as she did it mostly without the aid of her arm, as she only had the one to operate with. On her feet, Sint noticed that a few of the priests were talking about her. She wondered what they were speaking about. Truly, it wouldn’t take much thought to deem what exactly they spoke of, but there was some hope that they weren’t speaking ill. 

The power of the Light flowered within her since she was young, but it was a strength she had always attributed to the human spirit. It was always ironic to her that the power she had shunned so easily was the same power much of her career depended on. To the men of faith, she must seem to be so… self-entitled. So self-absorbed. The Light had granted her such a great gift and instead of seeing it as a revelation from the Light, she treated it as a rifleman treats his gun. A disrespect to those who gave a damn. Really, such sentiment still really didn’t matter to her. What mattered was the bestial flame held within her, a flame she had seen the full power of on just two occasions. The first gave her heart problems. The second took her arm and leg from her. She’s honestly not keen to meet the third occasion, the third likely being her final encounter with the purifying white Light she had come to fear. That coupled with the message her actual ancestors told her, that her soul was being burned up in her vengeful fire, Sint was looking for a way to fix her problem. Maybe that’s why she was in prayer. 

The last time Sint was here, she was a woman battered by war and trauma. Now she stood here, weathered and beaten by the very same forces. She remembered how she acted to her best friend, how she had started to push everyone away. Memories absent from her mind, she had even forgotten key things about those she should have cared about. Her path, her brother, her ex-wife were left partially blank in her mind. It took weeks to catch back up. And, things were never the same. Suspecting well enough that she would’ve never likely left Geneva before her stint in losing her mind, Sint could tell you that she was not the same person as the woman who left to Argus and came back a hero. Strangely, though, a beaten and broken Sint felt happier than the battered yet steady Sint of the past. The Sint who came here to reflect on her faulty memory was one who thought she was alone in the world, whether or not it was a conscious thought. The Sint who stood here, looking for salvation from her own blazing strength, knew that was far from the truth.

She smiled.

She must’ve closed her eyes, for she did not see the person that approached. A strong hand landed on her shoulder, causing Sint to return to the current world. A pair of icy eyes peered down at her, being a paladin in a fairly utilitarian and equally cold plate. Such a sight would’ve set Sint off guard before, if not for the fact she knew this woman. Albeit briefly, just shy of a year, Luze DeGrad was a face that had slowly become familiar to her. A face she could easily trust, as well. Though she knew DeGrad from her days in the Alliance military, they had truly begun to know one another in Sint’s final conflict against the inexorable Dark Lord of Goth’gor. The war had gone poorly for the army in Sint’s command, mostly since Sint had begun to lose herself to her power. Burgeoning flame started to eat her mind. Thus, she was sent away from the battle, back to this very cathedral.

A paladin had to learn how to command the Light, no matter how gifted they were as a soldier. Those who didn’t were consumed by failure or by fire. 

To avoid that fate, Sint spent some time with herself and with those willing to teach her. Mentors were few and far between for someone as infamous as she was, and she only managed to happen upon Luze in a chance meeting. The Alteraci Knight had been sent South by her father to elicit some Southern aid in his struggle to resettle some parts of Alterac, and thus, she found herself bouncing between institutions of War to find assistance. When she and Sint came face to face in a half-burnt training yard, Luze decided that the Lady of House Dagon was her new project. Luze was a good teacher. A bit rough, very demanding, and extremely physical… but her methods worked. She tamed the dragon within Sint, bringing her back to the ground, and for that: Sint owed her. Such a person was not foolish with the debts owed to her. Sint knew that, and she knew exactly what Luze would ask of her. The fact she hadn’t yet was a miracle in her eyes.

“Hey there, Shadow.” Luze often called Sint Shadow, mostly to tease her about the title of ‘Shadow of War’. “I did not take you as a woman who prays.”

Sint snorted, shrugging Luze’s hand off of her shoulder. There was an ease to her thoughts now that her friend was there. “I really don’t make a habit of it. Most of me likes to entrust fate to my own hands, not to… hopes and prayers.”

The Alteraci folded her arms, slightly nodding. “Prayer is half of my job, so consider this thought strange, but that is awfully peculiar to me.” A withering glare from Sint told the knight that she should better explain herself. Throwing up her hands, Luze complied. “There are many people just like you! Forgive my lack of clarity. I just thought that a military leader would be the type to find some slight comfort in prayer. Knowing that there is something guiding your hand has always comforted most I have come to know.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve always had a strange relationship with this whole leadership deal, so excuse me for being a little odd.” Sint cracked a small smile. 

Luze’s eyes brightened at the sight of her friend’s expression. “I was not aware you were even capable of smiling, but that is twice now. What has gotten into you?”

“Usually my mind dwells on the more morose side of things. Today? I’m reflecting. I suppose the reflection has been… comforting.” Sint tapped a finger against her chin, as she was wont to do when she thought, “Though, I wonder if it should bring me such comfort.”   
  
The knight quirked a manicured black brow. “By what do you mean?”

“Well, see… The monster you helped me tame? It still took my arm and my leg. I don’t know what exactly it’ll take next. So, you can see my dilemma.” The warrior put her only hand in her pocket, eyeing the loose sleeve tied up where her other arm should’ve been. “I am looking for ways to dampen it. Today’s given me scarce answers for that problem, but…”

“But?” Luze’s attention was enraptured.

“But, I think I have a place to start from.” Sint closed her eyes once more. “Do you remember what I told you about the months leading up to our meeting? Well, then, I had trouble calling upon the Light. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, nor that it was that my lack of memories had anything to do with it… But it was my mindset at the time.”

“From what I remember, you did not seem to be the happiest person on Azeroth during those days.” Luze narrowed her eyes. “And the only emotion I have felt that affects my casting is anger. I do not see where this is going.”

“I was unburdened, Luze. That, and I was… separated. I was Sint, but I wasn’t Sint. I was in a transition. Perhaps to temper this harsh Light, I need to change. My burdens must be left to rest.” Sint sighed, slightly uncertain whether or not Luze would take too well to this.

“You make it sound like the Light is some meddlesome pest, feeding off of your troubles. Personally, Sint, I think you will have to keep guessing.” The knight shrugged as her icy expression returned to her face. “Such frivolity surrounding your view of the Light is naive. The Light is not like the Arcane. Deciding it suddenly has rules that you can work around will do you no good.”

Sint frowned at that. “Then what do you suggest I do, Luze? I’m at my wit’s end.” 

“You need to figure out what troubles you so, and sever it. Only then will you find your balance.” The knight tapped a finger on Sint’s chest. “That, and you must figure out what your relationship with the Light is. Your clear respect for the power you hold is at odds with your lack of respect for its source. The Holy Light is not a power to be studied and abused, Shadow. It is a deep fountain of hope that many draw upon with tremendous force of will, to allow them to stand unbroken in the face of the dark’s adversity. It is not simply bright. It is not simply pure. It is the sun and the moon, the sky and the sea. It is heaven. It is the universe. It is you. And it sees through the troubles in your heart and gives you a tempered edge to handle them. It is all in your hands to see it through, that which the Light guides you to strike down.”

“...The way you make it sound, my foe is not a physical one.”

“Your foe is your heart. Forgive my candid words, Lady Dagon.” Luze took a deep breath, her face carrying a delicately sorrowful look.

“No… no. You’re right.” Sint took a step back, running her hand through her hair, suddenly feeling a bit shameful. Luze was just slightly younger than Sint, but sometimes she carried such an innocent look. Sint was a gruff and tough warrior, whilst Luze was a manicured and almost delicate looking knight. If not for the dents and scratches on her plate, the hefty battleaxe she always had on her person, and the scar on her chin, Luze would almost look like a girl fresh out of the academy. To make her frown… it tugged at Sint’s typically frozen heartstrings. “As usual, you’re right. But really? You had to make the face? Call me Lady Dagon? That’s just cruel.”   
  


The knight quirked up, a grin on her face. “You told me to always use my advantages. What sort of student would I be to deny her teacher’s very teachings?”

“I swear to the Light, Luze-” Sint was interrupted before she could finish that desperate thought.   
  


“Come on, my **professor** ,  let us figure out what troubles your heart.”

“Gh-... Argh…” Sint cringed. “...Fiiiine. Just never. Call me that. Again.”

“No promises.” There was a cheeky grin on her face.

Sint was in for another arduous journey, she could already tell. Even if it were only a visit down the street, it would be the most difficult one hundred paces in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Luze! This story gives you a timeframe from when Shadow of Conquest took place. This story takes place at the end of BfA, after the defeat of N'zoth. Conquest took place about eight months beforehand. We'll be getting more of Knight DeGrad, btw. ;)


	3. Death of the Dragons

The night was always long for Sint Dagon, as she had not slept through an entire night in years. Some nightmare or a sudden noise would jolt her from her rest, without fail, rousing her much earlier than she should be awake. That had changed as of late. She slept even less, but not solely due to an increase of these terrors, but because of pain. Pain in her chest. Pain in her amputated limbs. Her old scars ached, itched, and burned. Her new scars did double that. This night was worse than usual. Waking with a scream in her throat, she lucked out on waking the entire house as the scream went empty, her throat far too hoarse to emit any noise. But she needed to run. Panic. Thud.

She had swung out from her bed in an attempt to sprint, only to land on the ground, stirred at last from this nightly assault. She was in her room, in her friend’s home, in Stormwind. She was safe. Propping herself up on her right elbow, she wished just for a moment that she hadn’t fallen so far away from her leg. There it sat, her right leg, leaned against a nightstand. There she was, opposite to that side of the bed. With one arm and one leg, she could still make it. This piercing pain in her chest told her otherwise, as when she went to drag herself to where she needed to go, it shot deeply into her. Perhaps it was not the most agonizing pain she had felt, but she was tired. So very tired.

She blinked and suddenly sunlight was streaming through her curtains, and a very concerned woman stood at her door. Just as she did every morning. Perhaps Luze was more subtle than Sint gave her, but the prone Dagon could hear her and see her every time. Without fail. Pity was all they felt. Pity inspired a smoldering anger inside of her, as each pair of downturned eyes drove her mood further and further down. Was she that pathetic? She could not sleep for a whole night, not a single one. She could not survive on her own, as her finances had long plummeted, and her support narrowed into a trickle. What power and prestige she had before had left her, as even her own began to fear her. That purifying rage that simmered in her breast had made her a monster, a beast. A ticking time bomb is all they saw.

Not so long ago, she had marched to face her greatest foe. In this dire struggle, she saw her power begin to eat away at her psyche and her body. Strength was provided, in great amounts, but the cost of that strength was telling. Her rage made her blind. It turned her into an animal. Worse yet, when she came out of it, she felt her chest tightening. Her breathing grew more shallow. Exhaustion was a close ally to Sint Dagon in the waning days of her war, as each rampage she went on sapped her strength and ate her vigor. It alienated her as much as it was killing her, but she didn’t know if she could refuse it. The consequences of denying such power in this world could be fatal for more than just her, and she knew it. That’s why the pity hurt as much as it did.

Deep down she knew the consequences of her recklessness, but she also knew that her recklessness saved countless lives. If not for her sacrifices, thousands would be dead. Her health was just the required price to be a savior.

Sint slowly lifted herself from the floor, her strength already drained. A pool of sweat was left behind, the result of her late night exertions. For a moment she caught her breath, letting her heart slow in her chest. She recited names of old storefronts from Gilneas, some of which still persisted to this day in the last true city of humanity. Sure, Stromgarde may stand. Sure, Dalaran still flies high in the clouds. But neither were kingdoms, and one was hardly more than a fortress. It would take time for humanity to reach the heights it held once before. In a sense, that’s why these names calmed her so. Soothed her tempestuous heart. Her breathing finally back on track, she allowed herself to enjoy the last few seconds of silence.

Her voice was much more hoarse than she expected. “Luze.”

The larger woman’s footsteps made Sint believe that she had taken a few steps back, surprised she had been noticed. “U-uh, ahem… I wasn’t expecting you to be awake this early.”

Sint didn’t expect Luze to lie to her, but it was likely just out of kindness. The knight knew not that she had been spotted each and every day since they started to live together, at least it was the most believable hypothesis Sint could come up with, so she had no concept that her charge could detect her. If not for her current situation, Sint would have said this was amusing. Greatly amusing, even. But now? It just made her chest ache. “...Mm. So you say.” Her’s was a measured response, as she was not exactly ready to confront DeGrad’s reasoning behind her worrying. Instead, Sint put on her mask, and turned to Luze. A steely expression, no obvious emotion escaping her. “Since you’re here, get me my leg. Must’ve fallen in my sleep.”

“Rough direction to tumble in, my teacher.” Luze adopted that nickname that bothered her oh so much. “Your body was out to make your morning a challenge, eh?” Her heavy footsteps weren’t followed by the rattling of plate or mail, confirming to Sint that at the very least, Luze hadn’t been awake for long. A slight relief, that. The sun had just risen. “...Do you need any help, Sint?”

Sint’s thoughts had taken her away from the present, a few quick blinks taking her back into reality. Luze’s larger frame blocked out the sunlight as she loomed above Sint. Whether or not the day was young did not seem to matter, as despite her prior musing, Luze looked as if she had been awake for a few hours. Had Sint’s night terrors affected her so? Her long black hair had been straightened out, light makeup placed over her angular features. The Alteraci would never admit to that that she went out of her way to accentuate the sharpness of her face, to give her a much more intimidating look when she glared. Speaking of things that were done to make her more intimidating, Luze wore an outfit Sint never truly would have thought of before she met this knight. Sir DeGrad was a strong woman. That was evident in the way she carried herself, how easy it seemed to be for her to carry the weight of armor. The ease she swung her greataxe, a weapon that was taller than Sint was. But just like everything else about the knight, she quietly had a desire to show that off. And today, it wasn’t as quiet. Luze wore a tight shirt made of nylon, something light and breathable. And well, that accentuated her musculature. And as she stood in front of the Sun, her defined body was given a golden halo. Sint’s heart stuttered for a moment, and to be honest, she wasn’t quite sure why. 

“...Azeroth to Sint.” The knight’s stormy grey eyes were focused on Sint, now. “You alright? You looked like you were somewhere else.”

Sint coughed. It was a little embarrassing, to say the least, that she was nearly drooling. “I… I am fine. What’s with the outfit?”

Knight DeGrad flushed red at that question. “Er, uh. It’s, uh. Nothing serious! I guess it does look a bit strange in this weather, but… I was going to ask Sion or Ave to join me on a run.”

“Ave’s here?” Sint reached up for her leg.

“Yeah. Didn’t you call for her?” Luze didn’t stare at Sint while she slowly fastened on her prosthetic. Sint knew Luze still blamed herself for her injuries at the hands of Conquest.

“That I did. Have you heard the reports?” Sint managed to get her leg on in the time, finally regaining her ability to stand. It was a good first step.

“If you’re referring to the Silverpine ones, then yes. That and the rest of the North.” Luze finally was able to look at Sint again as the smaller woman rose to her feet. Some days it was easy to forget that Sint was injured, the way she moved. If not for the fact she handed that leg to her and the lack of the Lady’s other arm, that fluid leap to her feet would’ve told Luze that Sint was in perfect shape. “Ave brought a few with her. Sion’s got a full brief waiting for you.”

“Ah. It sounds like everyone woke up before I did.” Sint’s first steps of the day were always taken slowly. Real foot first, metal one next. The unfamiliarity with walking with a leg that was not your own still confused her senses from time to time, so it was better to take the day slowly than to stumble around like a fool. Still, there was purpose in her gait. There always was, it seemed. She approached her closet to pick an outfit for the day, still feeling Luze’s gaze on her back. Throwing off the rigors of the night, Sint dressed herself for a busy day. A light undershirt, a puffy white shirt to go over that, a pair of tight black leather pants, and her high-heeled boots were the items of choice today. That, and a silver glove. Sint hated to look at her own scars, and she hated that she couldn’t wear her arm today. It, like many things, was just slightly out of reach for her at the moment. She knew that if she asked for it, it would be back in her possession. But she needed to finish a few things before she gave herself the ability to be War again. Just another few days as Sint Dagon, that’s all she needed. Throwing her traveling cloak over her shoulders, she felt adequately covered. Tying her sleeve up so that it would not hang in the wind, she gave a cursory glance Luze’s way. “Good. At least I can rely on all of you.”

“My teacher?” Luze was sincerely taken aback by that statement. It wasn’t typical for Sint to say such things.

“I prefer to stand on my own. I cannot right now.” It sounded so simple coming from her mouth. “That is all.”

“I can’t argue with that. Just… pace yourself.” The knight regarded her with a cautious and concerned look, trying her best to hide said emotions. Sint was much too observant to fall for Luze’s attempts to hide her true feelings. When she was worried, her left eyebrow always twitched. And really, Luze’s face was always mildly cautious. The Alteraci had lived too much of a life to not suspect everything, to guard each emotion, to hide her true motivations. To give her credit where credit is due, she was usually very good at it. But Sint Dagon was rarely one to be bested, especially by someone so noteworthy. Have people hidden their true intentions from her before? Of course. She wasn’t all-seeing nor all-knowing. But Luze? Luze was someone you couldn’t forget. To not be able to read her would infuriate Sint to the ends of Azeroth.

Sint looked directly into Luze DeGrad’s eyes, a searching look now crossing her intense golden gaze. “Are you going on your run now?”

“Why?” Luze gulped.

“I think you want to be present for my briefing.” Sint looked away, breaking the tension. In truth, Sint wanted someone else there. Sion was Sint’s closest friend, but she also tended to know exactly how to chat Sint’s ear off. The elf had the benefit of longevity. Sint did not. To chat for an entire day is an incredible waste, and she’s done it more than twice with that damnably chatty Highborne. That, and she was starting to need an answer. The fire in her soul was burning her to death, and she felt it that morning. Luze was right to be concerned, and that was what troubled Sint the most. The people around her knew she was hurting, but to what extent? They didn’t know. She needed to tell them. “...It’s something important for our campaign moving forward. After I hear the new information from the front, I will make my decision.”

“That’s… ominous.” The knight sounded genuinely rattled.

“So it is.” And for a moment, she felt as if the Gift-Giver of Dragonfire was locking eyes with her. The very same gift he gave was the one that was burning her away. His glare was a challenge to her.

Was she ready to refuse the Gift? Whether or not, she needed to find an answer soon. Her life quite literally depends on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gay panic. Also... Sint pain.


	4. Odes of the Broken Sky

_“Grey hearts give away to naught else but the end of days and quiet succor. The marching beat of conquering boots goes quiet, a warhorse’s crimson flaming bridle quenched, with famine’s mark left behind on the people, only death offering a quick respite from this horror. A scythe, grim and vibrant against the Grey, cuts through the veil. The Heavens in mourning. The Storm unbound. Lightning and Fury. We shall prevail.”_ **_~_ The Rain-Soaked Manifesto, Gothrick Ethewick’s Oath.**

Rumor has it that anything is possible on Azeroth. The unbeatable Legion shattered against this world. The mysteries of the makers were unraveled in this world. The void pushed back by mortal hands. Time and time again, they did the impossible. Saw the impossible. So what difference did it make that the sky itself had broken open, a herald of an incoming doomsday? Sion’s face was grim, her words much lighter than usual. She rarely ever made the effort to shut up. The color drained from Luze’s face as she took in the news. Averna Garl, a worgen compatriot to Sint’s cause, paced outside. Sint, however, was calm. This probably would have surprised none if not for the way she appeared to be calm. It was not a tactician’s calm, reading the situation and planning around the potential scenarios with cool and collected thoughts. It was peaceful, serene. Those who knew her well enough knew the mask she wore when she was in thought. Instead, she stood there with her eyes closed, her only arm crossing her chest. 

“High General?” Averna bent down a little, the massive white worgen’s crimson eyes peering into the much-too-small room. “Color me a rook at these sorts of things, but what the hell does she mean when she says ‘The sky over Icecrown is shattered’. Never been there, so I’m a bit lacking on context here.”

“The heavens seem to be formed of ice, just as the land below it is. Northrend was ever an oddity to me.” Sint opened her eyes. “It always felt as a maw, the great open jaws of death. Before, that was because of the Scourge. We all knew the Scourge’s numbers had only gone up in the Northrend campaign due to the countless casualties, so it was only a matter of time before they washed over the world again. Icecrown felt as if it were a great chain clamping the slavering fangs of doom shut, preventing the tide of oblivion, saving us a few years to stop the inevitable. And yet, the Lich King didn’t do as his predecessor did.”

Luze slowly looked at Sint, shock evident on her face. It wasn’t often that Sint said something to visibly rattle Luze, so today was a day of miracles.

“Ah, the Lich King. Azeroth’s worst kept secret. They tell none that there’s a new Warden of the Damned, assuming that nobody would care to look. It was a good ruse, I suppose, if you didn’t care to think about why the Scourge retreated after Arthas died. That, and you didn’t wonder what new directive gave the Ebon Blade a purpose to act like they did during the Legion invasion.” Most didn’t tend to call Sint’s movements elegant, but the way she gestured for Sion’s report could be considered such. It was as if some sort of spirit entered Sint’s body to render her so serene.

“Nothing’s come of this yet, other than a few key players on Azeroth going missing. I’ve only heard preliminary word from my contacts in High Command, but this includes the High King and Lord Admiral. It’s unclear if the Horde’s lost similar leadership.” The druid held a deep frown as she continued. “What is clear is that the Ebon Blade are somehow involved, as their necropolis was spotted by the Argent Crusade within the past few days. It appeared over Icecrown after remaining sedentary for some time.”

“And what of the Scourge? I’ve seen Ebon Knights still in Alliance territory. They can’t possibly have turned against us, could they? Is this some sort of-” She stopped as a hand fell on her shoulder. Sint gave her a reassuring look. She could do that?

“Peace, Sir DeGrad. Let the Ambassador finish.” She removed her hand to cross her arm over her chest again. 

“The Ebon Blade haven’t been attacked by the Argent Crusade, so we can only assume that they aren’t our enemy. Alas, neither faction has been able to be contacted. At least, as far as I can tell. The Ebon Blade took something from Icecrown.” Sion looks to Sint. “I’m sorry if this isn’t enough to go off of, old friend. My hands are tied and our network has fallen into shambles.”

One tended to expect a slight look of annoyance from Sint here, but she kept her tone intact as she responded. “That’s my fault. I did not do my due diligence in rebuilding our forces after our ruinous campaign against Goth’gor. Rather, my ruinous campaign.” The Lady of Dagon took a step forward. “But it will be enough.”

“Sint?” Urgency filled Luze’s voice. “What do you know?”

“Blackfist. His plot was tied to unmaking the world through death. He aligned himself with Windrunner. Now the crown of the world is broken, and the Ebon Blade left with something. To me, it appears the Warden of the Damned was dethroned. Some of our leaders have gone missing. Anduin and Jaina were some of Sylvanas’ greatest adversaries. Not only did they thwart her war, they resolved it without further bloodshed. They denied her further death, further power.” When she passed Sion, she could see the realization hit her friend like a sucker punch. “Our bases in the North had to be abandoned. Do any of you know why?”

Averna grumbled. “Banshee sycophants and feral Scourge.” Then everyone heard her bang her head against the doorway. “OI! I GET IT!”

Luze’s fists clenched. “You’re saying this like it makes any sense, Sint. Coming from Sion’s mouth, it all sounded so disparate. Separate. Meanwhile, you make it make sense! Tell us what the hell it means!”

“It means that my time is running out.” 

Everyone just… looked at her. Shock. Fear. Confusion. Anger. Luze rushed forward and grabbed Sint around the shoulders. “The hell is that supposed to mean? Sint, please!”

“It’s not my greatest kept secret that I’ve been degrading over the months. My health’s been on the decline for a while, but. I’ve kept the truth from you all.” Sint weakly smiled, guilt apparent in her voice. “I… Well. I don’t have much time left in this world.”

Averna stumbled. Sion blanched at the suggestion. Luze froze, her eyes growing wide. Stepping back, her face slowly contorted. “...No, you don’t mean that. You can’t mean that. You’ve been getting better. I helped you get better!”

“You only helped stave off the inevitable, Luze.” Sint looked up at Luze, a slight smile still on her face. Sint looked into her knight’s eyes. “This is… difficult for me. I’ve honestly been trying to figure out how to break the news to you all. Now seems the best time, as I’d like to stave off one last apocalypse if I can. Dragonfire. Some of you know it well, some of you don’t. To share you the grief of my family’s history, it was the Red Dragon Kumostraz’ gift to my family. It harnessed the will in our souls to amplify our strength. This is why I’m so talented in the Light, just as my brother was. But unlike my brother, I didn’t leave it as how it was given to me. I kept developing it, kept searching for ways to empower myself. These furtherances of my strength were both a blessing and a curse.”

“You traded your vitality for the ability to ascend beyond your mortal restraints. To become something greater… for what?” Averna shook her shaggy head. “Did I miss a great sacrifice or what?”

“I did this to defend the things I cared about. I didn’t bow my head to some greater cause or belief. I simply did as I wanted to, for it felt like my only chance to do it. I do not regret what I have done. I simply… wish I had more time.” Sint bowed her head. “Forgive me.”

“Are you asking us to forgive you, or yourself?” Luze was the first to speak, grief laden in her voice. “Because I don’t think you understand, Sint. I promised myself to your cause because I believed in you and the things you were doing. Most importantly, you treated me as an equal. You gave me a chance to do great things. Now you’re telling me to forgive you for hiding… your weaknesses?” She sniffled. “You idiot. How long do we have?”

“I don’t know. Months. Less than that if I am forced to use this power.” She clenched her fist, eyes downcast.

“So stay away from this. Let us handle the rest. Live your last days in peace.” Sion put her hand over her heart. “You’ve been given the opportunity to know when and how you will die. It’s not a chance many get.”

“That’s not peace.” Sint shook her head, eyes closing. A slight bitterness filled her words, encroaching on anger. A quick turn faced her towards an opening window, her eyes now cast toward the morning sky. Downturned lips parted to speak a painful truth. “That is an agonizing end. Can I die in peace knowing that my friends and allies go to face their doom without me? Is it fair for me to waste away without strife whilst thousands rush to fight monsters I could have stopped? No. Of course not. It’s cowardice, nay, worse. It’d be monstrous of me. Thousands die in battle. I’ve led thousands to their graves. Do I get the right to fade, vainglorious, into paradise? I don’t deserve that. If I die, I deserve the same risks my brethren have faced. My soul does not deserve safety. My body does not deserve sanctity. I have not earned this peace, and I have not earned the right to abandon this world to an apocalypse I could’ve stopped. Scythe hung over my head, I cannot stand aside. Cruelty caused by my apathy throws many of you into the maw of Hell itself. Blackfist. Windrunner. Many who came before and many who will come after. I would have destroyed them. Why then, do they still stand?”

“They stand because I allowed myself to remain human. I abided by the laws of man because I feared the venom of justice. Treaties mean nothing when they harbor a destroyer, and yet… I still let myself get controlled by things that meant nothing to me. This,” she points at her heart, “is justice. This that burns inside of me, it is vengeance for all those that I failed. All those I let die by apathy. People you’ll never know. Sint, Sint, they all cry. Why do you survive while we burn? Now you die. Face that which you wrought, by the wrathful flames of perdition. This is fate.” She continued her rant, breathless. “This is justice.”

“I will not let any else die for my mistakes, my failures. This is my final ode to you, to any who listen. My battle-verse shall be sung until my lips are immovable, until my skin retains the mist of death. Do you hear me? Do not pity me. Do not fear for me. Stand by me, if you truly love me, and allow me this one last mercy.” All eyes were on Sint, each of them wordless. Hesitant to move, fearful of the expressions on their faces, Sint remained still.

“If that is the last chapter you wish to be writ of you, then I shan’t stand against you.” Sion was the first to speak. “You have earned your saga, Dagon. Make this last one legendary.”

“Aye…” Averna scratched at her ear, slightly taken aback by all of this. A long black claw was pointed Sint’s way. “If you don’t die good, then that’ll be right embarrassing.”

Sint slowly turned, disbelief painted across her face. The look softened as she looked to Luze. The knight trembled, her fists still clenched. Her face was a mix of emotions. Flush with anger, sorrow, and… hope? It all turned to hope. “You will not let us die, so we shall not let you down.”

“I’m not gonna let you die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most Sint's ever talked at once, as well as her most emotional speech yet. This all is really affecting her, huh?


End file.
